


in mornings such as these

by stray_space



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with Happy Ending?, Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Victor is coping, Yuri cares, Yuuri is already dead and have a mission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9695423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stray_space/pseuds/stray_space
Summary: Even in afterlife, Yuuri still struggles with emptiness, feeling nothing but numbness because of the void in the memories of his past life. Things change when he receives a mission on earth - to lead the soul of one Victor Nikiforov, who he knows and loves, and who is dying in ten days.





	1. falling puzzle pieces

In mornings such as these, Yuuri Katsuki wakes up, walks to the building, receive an assignment, works, stops working. Two sugar cubes, one teaspoon of cream, a coffee ready to go. He does his desk job, sorting through accounts of various people, writing in some notes, making some stamps, watching as clock ticks by and the day ends.

In mornings such as these, he waits in a white room, waiting and thinking, diving for his fondest memories, (desperately) trying to fill up his ever-empty memory jar.

 

Yuuri Katsuki was, in the history of the _afterlife_ , not exactly a peculiar case. Some people do not remember dying, like he does, waking up to whiteness, having already moved on, painless and numb and a bit hazy. Most people do not, however, like him, after days and days and weeks and weeks (or has it been months?), trying desperately to get a grasp of memories, remember nothing of the lives they have led and the people they have left behind.

 

Glaringly, he sat up, took a sip of this afterlife coffee (attuned to his tastes because, apparently he has led a good life), and stared at his memory jar in disdain.  
There is nothing but the glare of white and coldness (and silver if squinted). (--like ice. Maybe he had died on the ice? But this glare is comfortable and content and relaxing, and he is not exactly sure he would find those in dying.)

.

 

In this particular morning, however, the head angel rang him up, asked him to come to a room, and suddenly it was no longer a morning such as these anymore.

 

.

 

“You are heading out for your first real assignment today. The file is on your space.” – the head angel said, nonchalantly, not even looking up from his desk.

 

/

.

.

He was dismissed, left to ponder alone in walking back to his space, seeing and picking up a manila folder. A typical mission: playing guide to a soul soon to join heaven, making sure a human leave behind little regrets, all businesses tied, all remaining possessions divided, the usual things.

 

There were a name, a location, a time of death. Not even a photo attached.

.

 

 

.

The fall to the human realm was a short one. It was strange, existing and yet not at the same time, Yuuri thought as he discarded his garments for casual ones and braced himself for the impact with an approaching man that never came, feeling only the textures of fabrics as the man just passed through.

(It was strange, being made of this strange spiritual matter that phases through pretty much everything, feeling and yet cannot be felt.)

 

Back to business, he thought, and he set out with the folder at hand, even with his heart racing for no reason and his hands clammy and lungs out of breath and,

 

 

(somebody is going to die in ten days.)

.

 

 

St. Petersburg, Russia. That’s where he is, hence the snow.

 

Beach, snow, bridge, snow, a lake frozen in the midst of winter, familiar and comforting, chill but warm.

He passed an ice rink, taking a momentary break as a couple passed by, a blond man and a raven, one angry but sad and the other calm, soothing, as much as he could. The blond man waved, nodded, moved alone. Yuuri followed him, feet dragging along to a somewhat familiar pace like he had done this over and over before. (His heart tightened. He never quite understand why.)

 

(when was before?)

 

Block A. Floor 12. Pent house 4 on quite the luxurious part of the city, view to the quiet beach, accompanied with seagulls cries, just beside the rink he just passed by. The snow is white, beautiful and pretty but aloof and has the relaxing vibe he has once felt, staring at the memory jar in vain, grasping at nothing for a tiny picture of his past life.

 

His feet take involuntary steps to the elevator, just in time for the blond man to rushed in, pressed a button with a fury greater than one could possibly mutter, hand gripping his phone like he could crush it, (like he wanted to crush it) in his rage. The elevator stopped at his destination: (a coincidence, perhaps?) A grandeur accomodation on a well-off part of town. He wondered if this soul is wealthy and influential, they are always the hardest and most stubborn to depart, the most unwilling to move on, the wealthy ones.

(just his luck, really).

 

Blond man stepped out, screaming words (that Yuuri never quite registered for he was a bit too stuck in his own head) at the door, having rung the bell time after time to a complete lack of response. Blond man gave up, green eyes gave away anger and rage but there are sorrow and worry and great great care and even compassion if he squinted.

He went through the door as the man left, stepped inside the house, feeling strange but familiar all over again.

 

-

.

.

.

.

/

Spacious and nice and luxurious. Tall ceilings, hanging lamps, grey walls with sofas and a modern touch to the space. It was a wonderful living space, really, great view and large and wonderful funiture and design,

 

(and yet it seems so pretentious, even with plants by the window, books on the shelves, coat hangers filled with numerous articles, like the space is more displayed than lived.)

(skates with golden blades glinted in the corner of his eyes. He wanted to touch them.)

 

In. Out.

In. Out.

 

Katsuki Yuuri caught his own breath as he walked into the bedroom, following the not-so-silent, meeting the back of the owner of the house.

 

(he saw silver.)

 

He remembered silver. The snow. The glare of ice.

And as the golden ring on his finger flares under the light, pieces and chunks of his past life started to fall, all jumbled and disorganized but there, bare and fresh and there for him to picked up.

 

Times with his family, with his dog(s?), with his friends.  
Times on the ice, off the ice.  
Times where his body attuned with music, where his body _created_ music.  
Times where everything is out of sync and he broke down and then suddenly he stepped up with—  
Times with this man. Times with silver, times with gold. Time with his—

 

His what? Friend? Lover? Husband?

 

_(Soulmate.)_

 

It can’t be. It must not be.

(this was something from the life he has led. this was somebody he had left behind).

 

 

 

.

.

Victor Nikiforov, the file reads.

(Victor Nikiforov-Katsuki, his heart echoes.)

 

Victor is going to die in ten days.

_(But why?)_

.

 

 

 

.

“Hi, Yuuri. It’s nice to see you again.” –Victor, with his back still facing Yuuri, whispered, voice shaky yet numb like he expected this.

_How had he expected this? The afterlife is not supposed to be known, even to those dying. (he choked at the word)_

 “Yuri said the sessions would make it better, not in his own language, but of course.” A chuckle.

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

“Victor, I am not what you think I am. You are not making me up.” He heard himself speaking, voice trembling even while doing his best to keep it flat and calm.

 

 

Victor just smiled.

 

.

 

The Yuuri Katsuki of the past (or is it Yuuri Nikiforov-Katsuki?) may have prided himself on the talent of reading Victor, finding nuances and hidden meanings under his words, how he contemplate decisions, having a tell over his expressions, charming out the genuine smiles and sparkling eyes.

The Yuuri Katsuki of the present (standing still, expression frozen, breaths uneven) finds himself not exactly (no longer) masterful of such acts.

 

(His fists clenched.)


	2. Facts, realizations, heart breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important: The current timeline in this fic is at least 7 years after canon so a lot of events transpired between the ending of the series and this. Yuuri is not a reliable narrator still.  
> this chapter is really hard to write, but it contains more answers than any future chapter, and so i proceed with it nontheless.  
> sorry for the late update, it is just really hard to get in the story.  
> i hope you will read through this and understand bits about the things that happened in the timeline of the fic.

The morning routine started like this: Yuuri, grumpy with bed head, rises up to sunlight and the sound of Makkachin happily barking and his fiancé rumbling around, humming some off-tune melody like the (monstrous) morning person he is. He will then try (and for most of the time, fail) to toss off the soft blanket, crack his eyes open and pull himself out of bed. Coffee will normally follow (two sugar cubes, a teaspoon of cream, some sort of luxurious coffee grind that Victor always insists on buying,Yuuri having given in to his beautiful pleading eyes, reluctantly let him run free and wild with his antics), along a less grumpy, coffee-induced Yuuri, then a typical athlete’s breakfast, a more teasing Victor, and the happy-as-ever Makkachin, and soft humming and nuzzling and brushings of lips.

 

In mornings such as these, Victor would wipe a stain of coffee off Yuuri’s lip, and while Yuuri was busy admiring Victor, (his charm, his antics, his ever extra manner), they would share one too many Eskimo kisses, nose rubbing and then forehead touching and hand brushing and finally soft, tender, lasting laughs, leaving behind coffee rings on the table before whisking off to the snowy weather, hands in firm grips, warmth shared.  
.

 

(The rings would shine together, once upon a time, and Victor would give them each a fond kiss, before placing more all over Yuuri, adored and in love and all too free with affection like he has always been.)  


.

 

This morning, however, no longer a morning such as these, Yuuri Katsuki (Katsuki-Nikiforov) rose in the morning to little grumpiness, no humming or barking or tender laughter.

 

A day has passed since then, a day has passed since Yuuri Katsuki crashed to the realm of the living, unfelt yet feeling, meeting up with pieces of his past, facing with his dying fiancé. (He reminded himself then, Victor will die, is dying even as of this moment, just as plainly stated in the folder he has read more than a million times. But Victor has stayed the same man he had been from the last of  what Yuuri remembered, physically well, lean but strong even with aging, absent-minded but too keen for accidents, unless--)

 

/

Now here’s the thing about the past: one always love the things lost, cherished the memories that has slipped away.

 

 

.

.

/

Victor’s chest rises and falls with each breathe, silver hair spraying all over soft pillows, beautiful and oblivious, lost in dreams, and yet it is not right.

(Victor of the past slept with all his walls down, heavily and deep and just as beautifully (even with a trail of drool that stained Yuuri’s hair every morning), waking at the first sun rays (much to the misery of Yuuri and to the delight of Victor-the-tease))

 

 

(His hand phased through as he tried to reach silver locks.)

(He held himself back as Victor slowly roused.)

 

 

.

 

 

“It ‘s a regret really”, Victor said, hair barely brushed, dressed in the simplest attire, sipping slowly on his cup of coffee (black with sugar), “How am I supposed to use the sleeping beauty nickname to fluster you now if you stay awake the whole time?”

 “The dead don’t really need to sleep, Victor. And I’m pretty much immune to your cheesy lines, you should know that.”

 “Yuuri, ever the wet blanket! The sorrow! I know, but let me enjoy the tease, won’t you?”

 

.

Yuuri eyed the dirty sink as Victor pulled himself up and headed to the door. (another thing that still hasn’t changed).

 

He blinked as Victor held the door open, like he expected Yuuri to follow, head tilted, eyes half-closed, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  
“Shall we head out?” – He whispered, soft sports shoes rubbing on the tinted floor, awaiting of what seeming to be out for a run.

 

Yuuri followed this time.

 

/

.

.

 

The night before, after their first time meeting again (he would have used the word “reunion” but the whole meeting and the circumstances and the nature of _it all_ wouldn’t match up, the meaning would be stained. Reunions are not supposed to be painful, are not supposed to be reminders that one is leaving and the other has already left.), Victor left to visit the blond man before (Yurio, somebody important as well if the nagging tug in his chest is anything correct), who is raging as a storm yet full of care and insurmountable love held after a tough mask, and leaving behind Yuuri as he left. (“Yurio must have been furious with how much I’m ignoring him now, figures  I should heed to his demands before it turns violent.”, Victor sing-songed, teasingly but fond.)

 

(And Yuuri would have followed, but he couldn’t quite catch up and still have no idea how to make Victor realize he is not a fabrication of old memories and break the news of his impending death.)

 

The door finally opened to a lean silhouette, and there is Victor at the threshold, worn and tired and wrinkles at the eyes. (He was cracking, Yuuri read between the forced tilt of Victor's mouth, his dragged out sigh and tired demeanor.)

 

“We need to talk.”,Yuuri heard himself saying, hoarse and he could hear a pin drop.

 

 “Tomorrow, please, Yuuri.” was the only reply.

 

Yuuri spent the night like this, watching Victor’s chest rises and falls, watching a shell of somebody he loved (loves), holding himself back at the crack on Victor's expression every time he reach out, only to grasp at nothingness.  
And he could do nothing then, except to send breezes that tinged on fair skin and silver locks, hoping Victor would understand.

 

(“I'm here. I love you. I never stop loving you.”)

 

“Stop saying things you don't mean.” It was Victor somber voice in the dark, deep within his slumber, and Yuuri was graced with quite the irony that it was him who has said those words all those years ago.  
(Funnily enough, it echoed like an answer to his confession of love, and he has yet to fathom a reason.)

 

/

.

St. Petersburg is busy even in the morning, and Victor is walking with a pace that normal people won’t match up, feet trekking fast through the snow, ignoring the chill that has set in from the beginning of winter.

 

It turns out that Victor is heading towards the seagulls’ cries, all the way to the beach, where the sun hits softly and the water sparkles, sands rubbing at their feet. It was there that Yuuri's breath halted, because this is where it started, not at the fancy banquet, not at the onsen, this is where they met truly for the first time, met halfway, where Yuuri took in Victor as human as he is and Victor to embraced Yuuri, anxiety and shyness and different from the whirlwind he expected.

 

It was also where he would break it, have to break it.

 

“Victor, you are dying. I am here to take your soul.”

 Victor have a low hum, eyes darting to the oceans, his gaze soft and sad and had the slightest wavering.

 “I know.”

 “I am serious, Victor! You are dying in a couple of days! You should be getting all things in order now, saying goodbye and arranging businesses to have no regrets and-“

His throat dried up and his eyes watered because why don’t you care, Victor, believe me, listen to me for one second—

 

But then Victor started humming their song – off-tune and lacking for a duet, lyrics mispronounced, voice too low for a normal person to hear. But his hand extended towards Yuuri, his body took a bow, all very inviting and all of a sudden they merge together, dancing to off-tune humming, not touching but still match in pace and positions and feelings, and the aria turned to a duet right there.

There is only one chain of foot steps on the sand, and one out of them covered with beads of sweat and out of breath, but under the soft sun and next to the glistening water there, the moment is as perfect as it can be.

 

And for all the grace he held and the masks he wears, it was there that Victor broke to pieces and he was kicking the water in spite and sobbing with words that sound strangely like “It’s too late.” and “Why did you leave me?”.

 

(It was there that Yuuri noticed there is no ring on his finger and none on Victor's as well.)

 

It was there that Yuuri realized these five things:

  1. It was Yuuri Katsuki, not Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov.
  2. It was Victor Nikiforov, not Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov.
  3. It used to be.
  4. St.Petersburg will be snowing soon.
  5. Victor Nikiforov knows he is going to die



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the tendency to be pretentious in my writing and it shows. Please tell me if that annoys you and I'll do my best to change.  
> Thank you for reading.  
> (and i guess you guys have realized that I'm not a native speaker by now :"P)


	3. Drop.

I will admit, this fiction is finished, rightfully so, but I can't help but to keep it to myself, because god, for once, nobody cares, and I was in a slump when I see that, and for two, I hate this fiction, with fervent passion.

There's the plot: Victor knows he is dying because he is planning suicide, which Yuuri knows and tries to prevent him from. They got a divorce in the past because that was Yuuri's choice, for there is ice injury and uhm, things like that.  
The reason to Yuuri's death is unimportant.

I feel terrible for discontinuing this, but I think it is rightfully so?  
(Again, I have come to hate this piece and it is hard to so much look at it but the suscribers deserve their explanation, however shitty.)

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a oneshot, but then it became this story that went out of my plan and I need to get it out as fast as possible. Updates will be fast (or you can always urge me on tumblr at @saurberry)  
> this just in: I'm a terrible human being and physically cannot stop killing my favorite characters.


End file.
